Bloodstained Legacy
by Saria-the-green-haired
Summary: The firstborn and heir to the royal family has always been a son. Coincidence? Two people are about to find out what lengths tradition can drive people to, and it isn't pretty.


Warnings: Angst, death, blood, and magic stuff I pulled out of my arse.  
  
Pairing: None (I think I may die of shock.)  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Yu-gi-oh. Watch me sulk.  
  
Notes: Not quite AU, but not quite canon. Although, since we know next to nothing of the pharaoh's life as a child in Egypt, this may not be that far off...(not)  
  
This story is completely in first person, but from the viewpoint of two different people. (The ***** indicates the POV switch)  
  
This story was originally going to be a series, but since I entered it in the "Project Yugioh" fanfiction contest, I tweaked the idea a bit (this was originally going to be half the size and the prologue) and it is now a oneshot. (This got into the semi-finals in said contest. I just about died of shock.)  
  
Many hugs to Zoo(-sama) for beta-ing this! ^^  
  
And last but not least, enjoy!  
  
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Bloodstained Legacy  
  
By Saria-the-green-haired  
  
I've always loved his eyes. The prince's, that is.  
  
I suppose I'm lucky then, for I get to see them every day, as I was the prince's nursemaid and his second mother. I believe that I know more about his life than anyone except perhaps himself. And his parents, of course -may the Pharaoh and his wife live forever.  
  
But I'm getting ahead of myself.  
  
The prince's eyes are beautiful: delicately slanted and accentuated perfectly by his finely sculpted features -he inherited his mother's beauty- , and the most gorgeous shade of crimson I've ever seen.  
  
Some people mistakenly say that his eyes look like the sky when Ra, the sun god, is descending at dusk. I cannot admonish them, for it is true that both are red. Yet, when Ra leaves at night, the sky looks as though it is wreathed in flames; and though it is true that the prince's eyes flicker with, unruly flame-like passion, his eyes are not the same shade as the sky at sunset. His eyes are a darker shade of red: closer to smoldering embers than to the pale shade of dancing flames. Closer, but different all the same.  
  
Others still compare the prince's eyes to the precious and beautiful jewels -rubies; they are called- that we import from South Africa. True, the prince's eyes are almost as exquisite as the flawlessly cut gem, but to compare my prince's eyes to cold, dead stone is unthinkable. However, people do.  
  
And then there are those that whisper amongst themselves, casting furtive, wary looks at the prince. "The prince's eyes are the color of blood," they say. What they say is true; the prince's eyes are identical in color to the crimson life that runs through our veins. Some say, that because of this, the prince must be a demon. I reprimand them harshly. The prince is no more a demon than I am. Those rumors have died out over the years thankfully. Other, uglier tales are spreading through the palace, and I rebuke any that I hear talking about them. I cannot bear to think of what would happen if my lord and lady ever heard of these rumors, for they guard their beloved son with the ferocity of dragons, as though he were a precious and priceless jewel, which he is.  
  
The prince is his father's only heir, after all.  
  
It is truly a pity that the prince's siblings were all stillborn. I know that it grieved my lord and lady greatly, for they mourned much. Fortunately, the prince was born alive and healthy, and even from a young age it was apparent that he would be than powerful enough to take the throne when his father could no longer play the Shadow Games. Therefore, we should have all been happy and content.  
  
And we were. But no more. Now, the vipers that we have cradled in our bosoms for so long have struck, quickly and silently. They have poisoned the minds of the people against the prince and his parents; they blame the royal family for catastrophes that have stuck the land and spread ridiculously laughable theories.  
  
At least, that's what I used to think about the rumors. But now, I'm not so sure.  
  
When the prince was young, there were the customary accidents and mishaps that occur when an uninstructed child has magical powers. There was nothing odd about that; but they continued to happen long after the prince learned to control his magic. When asked, the prince would deny any involvement, but there was simply no other explanation, and that is what I believed.  
  
Around that time, some of the younger and more impressionable servant girls began to tell tales of ghosts and infants wailing in the night.  
  
Lately, the incidents have mostly stopped; but now, the prince is having trouble sleeping. The first few nights he woke up screaming loud enough to wake the entire palace. Now, when he wakes, he does not scream. Rather, he curls up in the corner of his room, staring at nothing with frightened -but still beautiful- eyes, starting nervously at shadows until morning.  
  
It is during the night that I am reminded once again that the prince is still a child, no matter how haunted or shadowed his eyes have become.  
  
Usually, I am not fond of gossiping, but sometimes it does have its usefulness.  
  
I was talking with one of my friends, another servant in the palace. She mentioned that one of the newer servants had wanted to know how the royal family established its heirs.  
  
My friend had explained that traditionally, the firstborn child is the heir, regardless of their gender, provided that they have enough magical power. It has long been believed that just before a baby is born, they are imbued with the magic they will have for all their life. However, girls are too weak to survive having too much magic, much less use it, so they die before they're born. Many believe that that is why all the prince's older siblings were stillborn; they were unable to handle the immense magic that a member of the royal family is born with.  
  
After she'd finished her explanation, my friend said that the other servant had stated that it would mean that all the prince's dead siblings had been female then.  
  
"Of course," she'd said.  
  
"How do you know?" the other servant had asked.  
  
"Why, because that's what their Majesties said," my friend had answered, bewildered at the question.  
  
"Could we ask the midwives present at the births to confirm it?" the other servant had pressed.  
  
"That's impossible; they're all dead," my friend had said.  
  
"All of them?!" the other servant had exclaimed.  
  
"Well, not the prince's midwife," my friend had amended after a moment's thought.  
  
"But how?" the other servant had asked.  
  
"Various accidents and the like," my friend had replied, shrugging. "No one really knows for sure."  
  
Their conversation had turned to other things after that, but my friend said that the conversation wouldn't leave her mind, for some reason.  
  
"It *is* rather odd, isn't it?" she'd asked me. "All the deaths, I mean. Once or twice could have been coincidental, but five is a little much, don't you think?"  
  
I'd nodded and made the appropriate sounds of agreement and we'd gone our separate ways soon after that; she to her duties, and I to mine.  
  
The conversation had reawakened old fears and doubts, as well as an old memory.  
  
Shortly after the birth of one of the prince's sisters -she would be the second youngest if she were alive, I believe-, I had a most unsettling conversation with a servant friend, who had been cleaning near the queen's quarters when the baby had been born. What my friend said was strange indeed, and it troubles me even now.  
  
Though we were told that the baby had been stillborn, my friend claimed to have heard the cry of a newborn.  
  
***** (POV change)  
  
Their eyes are cold and filled with hate when they look at me. Not that they ever look me in the eyes, of course, for I am of higher standing than they, and it is considered impolite.  
  
Good manners are powerless to prevent them from talking about me though. They think I can't hear them, but I do; just because I tend to ignore them doesn't mean that I'm deaf, after all.  
  
"Demon child," they call me. "Harbinger of evil; murderer." They blame me for anything and everything that has gone wrong, even when I was not yet born. They accuse me of causing the famine that starved the people, of causing the drought that withers the crops, of causing the plague that is killing people and livestock, and of much more.  
  
After all, everybody loves a scapegoat, especially if they look the part.  
  
"How fitting that his eyes are the color of blood," they hiss to each other. "For he is stained with the blood of all the people he has killed."  
  
They don't know how close yet so far from the truth they are.  
  
The most vivid memory I have of my childhood is of the day when my absolute trust and faith in my parents cracked, of the day when I was given the first clue to the terrible secret that my parents tried so hard to keep; the secret that had been passed down to them by my father's parents, and to them by theirs.  
  
I'd bumped into a man in the hallway, a servant. He'd seemed nice enough, and so I'd stayed and talked to him happily about everything and anything, glad to meet someone who would listen to me.  
  
He asked me how I was doing with the Shadow Games, as I'd recently started training for them.  
  
Proudly, I'd said that I was doing well; well enough that Father had said that I could start playing against real opponents soon.  
  
The man had smiled then, all traces of friendliness gone as he said that it was only natural that I would be so good at the Shadow Games -the Killing Games, as they were sometimes called- because I had killed so many people before I was born, so of course I would have a knack for it now.  
  
I'd stared at him, taken completely by surprise, as he said this, as calmly as if he were commenting on the weather. When I recovered, I asked him what he meant.  
  
He'd laughed and said that if I really wanted to know, I should ask my parents about my older siblings, and about why I was a murderer.  
  
Naturally, I'd asked my parents.  
  
I have never seen my father so angry -or so scared- than in the one moment after I'd finished relating the tale of my conversation with the odd servant to him. My mother had turned so white that I thought she would faint. After they'd recovered from the shock, my father demanded to know whom the servant had been.  
  
With a child's complete faith in his parents, I told them.  
  
I never saw that servant again.  
  
Well, that's a lie; a better way of putting it would be that I never saw him in the physical world again. That's because, shortly after that incident, the dreams began.  
  
I wonder what the people would say if they knew that I dreamed of blood, of screaming, of accusing voices? Would they say that I was being haunted by the vengeful spirits of the people I'd killed? Because if they did, they'd be right.  
  
When I was a child, I used to wonder why children never wanted to play with me and why they would shy away from my touch. I used to wonder why the servants and the noblemen looked at me with such accusing eyes, even when I was simply standing quietly. I used to wonder why my mother and father never mentioned the little row of graves in my mother's private garden.  
  
But most of all, I used to wonder why no one else could see my only friends; why said friends were not very nice to me at all; and why no one would believe me when I said that it was not my fault that this vase had broken or that lady's dress had ripped.  
  
For a lonely child such as I, even little ghost children seem like very good friends.  
  
Just as, I suppose, an heir was important enough to drive my parents -and their parents before them- to murder.  
  
Because now I know what the secret my parents keep is.  
  
Because now I know why that servant called me a murderer.  
  
Because now I know whom the accusers in my dreams are.  
  
Because now I know what they accuse me of.  
  
Because now I know that it's true.  
  
Because now I know that before I was born, people were killed because of me. And now, to protect that secret, more are being killed; and that I will be expected to carry on that tradition when I am Pharaoh.  
  
The people accuse me of killing their fellow kinsmen through plagues and the like. They say that I am stained with the blood of my victims.  
  
I am not stained with the blood of those killed by plague or other natural causes.  
  
I am stained with the blood of my sisters, of those who helped birth them, and any who have discovered just how a male heir to the throne is guaranteed, generation after generation.  
  
I truly am all that the people call me.  
  
Sometimes I wonder if the numerous people that covet my father's throne, the people that challenge him for it daily -and will, someday, challenge me- , would still want to be Pharaoh if they knew that it meant being a murderer. I know I don't. But I have no choice, and there's nothing that I can do about it, except accept this bloodstained legacy that my ancestors have left me.  
  
~* End *~  
  
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Please, just, don't ask. 


End file.
